


The day Art died

by Gan_HOPE326



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, Satire, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21735946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gan_HOPE326/pseuds/Gan_HOPE326
Summary: It happened that one day, at a press conference held during a major exhibition, a selected group of the greatest living Artists faced the critics, the public, and the journalists airing their images all throughout the world, and with solemnity and a tinge of sadness, but not a hint of hesitation, announced that, exactly one year from that day, they would kill Art. And everyone who heard them knew instantly it had been long coming, and could not happen any other way.





	The day Art died

It happened that one day, at a press conference held during a major exhibition, a selected group of the greatest living Artists faced the critics, the public, and the journalists airing their images all throughout the world, and with solemnity and a tinge of sadness, but not a hint of hesitation, announced that, exactly one year from that day, they would kill Art. And everyone who heard them knew instantly it had been long coming, and could not happen any other way.

It had started decades before. Having long forgone the excessive straightforwardness of painting and sculpture, Art had sought refuge for a while in more unusual forms, injecting artistic value in unconventional object, or creating experiences, ephemeral moments that would exist for a few days and then be forever gone, and so much more valuable in the memory for that. But soon, those forms faced the same end as all the ones before. There was a baseness, a vulgarity to being so grounded in matter, in the mundane and the tangible, be it a human body or a can of soup. Man is made of breath and mud; and it was not to the mud, that Art belonged.

A new, revolutionary generation came, crashing conventions, sweeping the world by storm, blinding it with wonder. Entire exhibitions consisting only of empty white rooms. Hearts trembled and minds struggled to grasp the immense intangibility of such classic works as "Roomful of motes" and "Four thousand moles of nitrogen". In one occasion, as a provocation that some considered incredibly innovative, some outright reactionary, an Artist went to great lengths in order to make such a room completely sealed and suck all air from it with the most powerful pumps available, to title this work "Nothing". In an even more disruptive act of subversion, another Artist silently walked to the door and on the name tag attached a yellow post-it with a new, more accurate title: "Shower of solar neutrinos".

There was despair following that; some Artists even decided to forgo Art forever. But those who resisted were enlightened by even greater understanding. The core mistake, they realised, was to root themselves in matter altogether, no matter how small or light the particle they would tie their work to. They moved to pure concepts; and to make sure, tags were forgone as well. Artists would announce what the work was, once; but there would be no physical tribute to it, no room in a museum, no shrine for admirers to practice their pagan pilgrimage. The subject itself would have to be as vague and intangible as possible. "A fond childhood memory" and "A doubt" are perhaps among the most appreciated works of the era, together with another whose title we are now forbidden to speak, for those were the conditions in the contract under which it was sold to a collector for the exhuberant sum of one billion dollars.

And yet, not even that was enough. For after all, what are memories, or doubts, if not just electric pulses in one's brain? A new era of jadedness and discontent fell on the world of Art as more and more often critics and Artists alike pointed out the hypocrisy of it all. And this time, there would be nowhere to seek refuge into. No more room to abstract. For Art to sublimate itself entirely, the only road was to cease to exist.

The plan was simple, like all the most beautiful things. The Artists had all come to an agreement. Anyone among them who wanted to had one year to officially and publically renounce Art, and renege their own work. There would be no shame for it. Everyone else, on the appointed day, would meet in an established location, where, under the gaze of the world, they would commit suicide, and take Art to the grave with them. It was absolutely forbidden to take up any apprentices or impart any teachings during that year. Those who held teaching positions at academic institutions renounced them. Their knowledge had to die with them, or there would be no point.

Some facetious people suggested that so many would simply declare to give up Art there would be no one to kill themselves at the end, and certainly, many did, but some Artists were made of sterner stuff than that, and would not deny the craft that had given meaning to their lives that last vigil, and that last sacrifice. The legality of the matter was argued; some asked vociferously that the suicidal Artists be stopped, and if necessary interned, for their own safety. In the end, many of them went into hiding, and it was agreed to carry out the ceremony on a ship, far in international waters. Having all been lifted from the responsibility of doing anything, governments were content to declare the matter out of their hands, and express regret at what the world was about to lose, then go on about their business.

The fatal day came. It was a clear, cool morning in the North Atlantic; as beautiful a day as one could pick to leave the world of light forever behind. The Artists walked silently out on the deck, in front of a public that was holding its breath. They all wore black, breezy tunics, like the chorus of a Greek tragedy. Women and men alike wore no make up, and had their heads shaved. Each held in their hand the chosen instrument of their own destruction. 

Pills fell the first one; a sweet, painless death coming like slumber. The second fiercely struck a short sword in his own gut, like a samurai, and fell with great cries of pain, as blood spilled out together with his intestines. The third had prepared a contraption that tied his neck and his wrists with rope behind his back, and then, slowly, pulled them together, finally killing him by strangulation. The fourth slashed her own wrists open, and theatrically held her arms in front of her, letting the blood flow and cover the ground like a carpet, until she could stand no more. And so on, and so forth.

There was some hesitation when it came down to the last. He was a young one, that Artist, and a timid type, and the media had often maligned that he'd been dragged into this affair more by peer pressure than anything else. He didn't do anything for a few minutes, shaking lightly, a gun in his hands. Then someone from the public shouted to him that he should give it up, to please abandon this madness, that he could live in so many more ways. That seemed to decide it for him. He gazed back defiantly, straightened his back, and put the gun in his mouth.

One moment later, it was all over, and Art left the world forever.

Those who had watched could never decide how they felt - but they all agreed that they felt  _something_ , something powerful, that had not dwelt in their hearts for a long time. When gods die, even their corpses are greater than the lives of many smaller than them. They were asked to speak of it, but most never did. It was too intimate, too precious a feeling to share.

Time passed, and after the initial shock, the world stopped thinking too much about the day Art died. There was, to be sure, still lots of art being made, all over the place, to distract one from the memory. Kids would draw their parents and teenagers would write poetry to their crushes. Everywhere, everyday people sang and narrated and danced and acted and crafted and put together stuff just for the love of it, to see what would happen, or to make something they thought was beautiful, or to gift to the one they loved. Seeing all of that, one might have thought that on the fatal day all that had happened was that a group of eccentrics not quite right in their heads had offed themselves for no good reason. But in the end, all that drawing and writing and singing, that was all just that, just art. The ones who knew better could tell, it was not the real thing. No, Art had left the world, and was never to return, and all they could do was mourn it, and cherish what relics were left of it. The horror of it was, the more time passed, the more, for all that they tried, they realised even the memory of it was fading, and they could not quite remember what it had ever been like.

**Author's Note:**

> A short story that may or may not have been inspired by certain recent events involving bananas and adhesive tape. Subject to multiple and personal interpretations, as all art ought to be.


End file.
